


The Deep-down War

by Tarasque



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Azanulbizar, Homophobia, M/M, War of the Dwarves and Orcs, Young Dwalin, Young Thorin, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarasque/pseuds/Tarasque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the battle of Azanulbizar, there were a too-young prince and his too-young friend on the road of exile, an old king mad with grief and poverty who went to lose himself into Moria with only one companion, a gathering of allies and seven years underground war against orcs. Afterwards, after the war culminated in that great battle, they still were too young, but they had changed. They were heroes, and the grief had passed on to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep-down War

**Author's Note:**

> “That was the beginning of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, which was long and deadly, and fought for the most part in deep places beneath the earth. (…) Both sides were pitiless, and there was death and cruel deeds by dark and by light.” With such promising sentences in the LotR appendices, no wonder that I’ve been wanting to have a go at the events between Thror’s demise and Azanulbizar for a long while. So the timeline is mostly from the books: Thorin was twenty-four when Erebor fell, forty-four when Thror left with Nár for Moria and was killed by Azog, fifty-four when he fought at Azanulbizar.  
> However, because the characterisation of the dwarves in Jackson’s films is what brought me to the fandom, I’m heavily borrowing to the films, too: Dwalin and Balin are older than Thorin, and you’re free to imagine every canon dwarf as portrayed in the films!  
> Also, this is Dwalin/Thorin, with some (all right, a lot, I hope it’s not too much) paragraphs spent developing this side of the story. I have ulterior motives but I won’t tell more as I’m not really sure I’ll manage to go far enough in their lives for it to matter.  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> An important warning for this chapter: attempted rape, though it doesn’t go far and there’s nothing graphic. The mature rating is because of a consensual sex scene.
> 
> Also, there's no war (yet) in this chapter. But it will come!

Dwalin wiped the sweat from his face, watching the resulting trails of grime on his already blackened forearm. Then, with a groan, he lifted his pickaxe and went back at the coalface.

Men expected dwarves to work twice at much in the mines, and set them tasks accordingly. Days and nights to be spent down hacking at the coal without being lifted up to the sun – to be precise, three days and two nights this time, with a large wagon that would have to be filled and pushed back to the main tunnel before they’d be allowed to climb up. And the thing was, the dwarves could raise to the challenge, and did, because it paid – actually, it didn’t pay well, but it paid better than any other job they could find in Dunland these days.

That Thráin had finally accumulated enough funds to start his own forge was a blessing, for sure, one step towards a more lasting settlement for the exiles, but it also meant that there wouldn’t be any more work to be found in the Men’s smithies. In fact, Men had begun to look suspiciously upon any dwarf working in a setting that could showcase any particular skill, so afraid they’d become of competition from better skilled craftsmen. And Thráin’s forge wasn’t enough to sustain all of the dwarvish community, not yet, so what was left for the young dwarves and really for anyone that could be spared, even people like Thorin or Nár who were excellent smiths in their own right, was that base work in the worse mines of the Men. So they went down in the places where the more usual mannish miners didn’t want to go – damp places, deep places, in rotten stone drilled with crumbling, dangerous, badly made tunnels that would have made any dwarf from before the dragon shudder and leave in disgust, all of that to dig coal or salt or anything the Men owners deemed cheap enough that they weren’t afraid of Dwarves stealing what they dug.

Close to him, Dwalin heard Nár let out a strange, slightly pained grunt. “Mahal’s beard, I’m parched,” said the latter in a raspy voice.

“Rest some more, Nár,” said Thorin from behind them. “And you too, Skirnir. You’re swaying on your feet. We’ll fetch you some water.”

“I’ll get the waterskin,” said Dwalin.

When he came back, everyone had taken the opportunity to rest a few moments more, leaning on their pickaxes, Nár was bent over, steadying himself with his two hands set on the rock face, and Skirnir was all but crumpled on the ground. The thing was, thought Dwalin from all the wisdom of his forty-eight years, Skirnir was much too young, barely thirty – still a child, and not completely grown. All of them, they were too young, except Nár, who was too old. Nobody knew what the row that had made him leave Thrór’s side was about, but the fact was that he was with them, exhausting himself instead of waiting for his king as he’d done for as long as anybody alive could remember. That wasn’t that Nár was so ancient. He was, as far as Dwalin knew, some ten years younger than Thrór, but while the latter at two hundred and forty-eight years old was still in perfect physical health, the former’s body was beginning to show signs that in a dwarf meant decline, and old age, and death. For a while, it had only been rapidly greying hair, and that could be easily dismissed, but then had come that trembling of his hands after a shift at the mine, and now those grunts of pain and the way each of his moves seemed so carefully measured.

Too young, too old. It was unfair, and it was the way of the exile, their only way twenty years after the dragon and once again Dwalin felt a surge of hot rage at his – their – own helplessness.

And then there was Thorin. Too young, too, only forty-four and nobody had even thought of celebrating his coming of age four years ago, so lost they were in the tumult of their lives on the road. A prince of the line of Durin, a king one day – and one that had to toil alongside his people, clothed in the same tattered miner rags, his face as blackened and sweaty and his muscles as sore. And as likely to be scorned by Men miners that hadn’t got a clue about his ancestry.

But. But, thought Dwalin, helpless against the feeling of warmth pooling in his groin. But he couldn’t help thinking that Thorin never felt more alive or more powerful than when he was underground, and that day, in that badly-shored up hole, under the light of the one mining lantern, his prince couldn’t look more – more beautiful. The light of the lantern behind him outlined the angles in his face, the sharp cheekbones and that long narrow nose that might have made his face too delicate if the heavy eyebrows, strong thin mouth and focused expression hadn’t balanced it. As was normal with dwarves, his eyes were faintly glowing in the gloom but their stark blue colour in that face stained black with coal dust and striped white with rivulets of sweat made them otherworldly. He’d shed away his outer layers of clothing, keeping only his undertunic over his breeches and boots; his sleeves were rolled up over muscular forearms and his sweaty back and shoulders clung to the fabric of his clothes, revealing an equally powerful frame. He had pulled the lacing open at his collar and there was the glint of a silver torc, one of the last heirlooms of his house that hadn’t been pawned up or just plain sold, kept safely against his skin. A hint of intimacy, precious metal on a bared throat under the too-short bead, and one that made Dwalin shiver.

In spite of his tiredness, Thorin stood erect in an unconsciously graceful stance that had as much to do with continued weapons training as with the long-forgotten dance lessons of his early childhood.

A Maia, thought Dwalin. Some spirit of the underground stone, majestic and distant and so incredibly unattainable.

“A copper for your thoughts,” said Thorin as he reached for the waterskin. “It’s not that I wouldn’t give more, but you know how our finances are.” He was grinning, white teeth against blackened skin and blue-black beard, and Dwalin hated him just a little for being so handsome.

“I was thinking of how you’re second in line for the throne, and our prince, and still have to hack at that coal in that Mahal-forsaken place.”

“Ah. Well, you’re sixth in line and a lord of the line of Durin, and I can’t help noticing that you’re here yourself. The way of exile, eh?” Thorin’s smile was still there, but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That’s not the same at all, and you know it.”

Thorin nodded. The thing was, knew Dwalin, he really understood, in a way some others, Dwalin’s own brother among them, quite didn’t. Thorin didn’t talk much, and watched a lot, and as a rule tended to notice more about others than those others tended to give him credit for. And so it was that Thorin, eldest son of the eldest son of a king, born a leader and bound by it to his people’s doom, perfectly understood Dwalin, a lord’s second son who had discovered that there was so much more freedom in standing one step behind, and serve.

“Still, Mister Dwalin, there are so many more interesting things that we could be doing, you and I.”

Oh, how Dwalin knew it! Fantasised about it, even. But of course Thorin meant it only in a perfectly innocent way, and only dreamt of them working metal together, maybe, or sparring like the best friends they’d become on the road.

Thorin exhaled, worked some kink in his shoulders, stretched. “I think we’ve overextended our welcome here. The amount of work isn’t worth the coin any more. We’ll finish this load and collect our pay and then we leave. Come, Skirnir,” he went on, extending a hand and lifting up the younger dwarf. “Back to the coalface, one last time.”

Thorin positioned himself close to Skirnir as everyone went back to work, and Dwalin noticed how his friend was striking the rock is a way that made it fissure in front of the youngster as well, so that the latter needed only a very minimal effort to detach lumps of coal, though it didn’t seem he’d caught on Thorin’s little scheme. Dwalin caught Thorin’s quick glance and went to stand beside Nár, hitting the coal at a careful angle. The old dwarf smiled briefly, and then again, nearly tenderly, while looking at Thorin.

 

As they exited from the mine – for the last time, thought Dwalin fervently – in the grey light of an overcast dawn, Thorin didn’t look like one of Mahal’s Maiar anymore, just like an exhausted dwarf with red in the white of his eyes, coal dust in his hair and in every crevice of his skin.

He shuffled – they all did, their boots strangely heavy – side by side by side with Dwalin and the both of them caught a foot on some wandering root, stumbled and steadied each other, Dwalin’s khuzdul swearing much more creative than Thorin.

“Can’t wait to find my bed,” mumbled the latter.

“Aye. Remember it’s our turn at the kitchen this evening, though?”

“ _Kekhfaru Mahâl_! Tell you what, I’ll do the shopping this afternoon, I cook, and you do the dishes.”

“I do the dishes? Wasn’t it your turn?”

“Told you, I’ll go to the market instead. You can sleep longer that way.”

“Thorin, my lad, the day you do the dishes is the day I marry.”

“Can’t help if I hate dishwater. But you know, I’m tempted to do them nonetheless just to see you wed to a bonny lass! Who will be the lucky girl?”

Dwalin actually growled. “None,” he said, perhaps more curtly than he’d have weren’t he so exhausted.

 

“What’s that?” asked Dwalin when Thorin came back from the market in the early winter evening. The things were a sickly yellowish green, small, round and horribly leafy. And their smell could only be qualified as suspect. Maybe putrid.

“I’m told they’re called Bree sprouts.”

“Who’s Bree and what did he do to deserve such a fate?” asked Dwalin because that was what was expected of him.

“Bree’s a place and you know it, you oaf. And that’s the only thing I could get in large enough quantities for fourteen dwarves so late in the day. And with what coin I could give her. I also have a few potatoes and two sausages, let’s hope they’ll add some taste to the whole thing.”

“Sausages as seasoning. What a pity. How do you cook Bree sprouts, then?”

“The woman told me to boil them. Maybe if they boil long enough the taste won’t be so vile? I know most vegetables at least lose that disgusting green colour after a while.”

“You can always try. I won’t take any responsibility for the result, though.”

“Traitor.”

“I’m doing the dishes, remember?” He hesitated, then added. “Thorin, shall I try to hunt some meat? Birds are easy to catch in winter and there’s plenty in the woods.”

Thorin’s jaw set abruptly. “No,” he said. “Not worth it. We’ll be out of here tomorrow and we can’t risk finding we’re encroaching upon someone’s private property again. Not when our pay isn’t yet in our pockets. Or do you wish to try their jails, too? Let me tell you, the food is even worse than what I can cook.”

“No. You’re right. Shouldn’t have asked, sorry.” Dwalin gave Thorin a small apologetic smile. Their last rabbit had been caught by Thorin on what they had found was a local lord’s lands. Thorin had been given a choice between parting with his silver hair clasp and beads and staying one week in jail – he’d chosen the latter. ‘Of course’, the Men had said, and that had been even more humiliating than the jail sentence.

Thorin nodded, then smirked just a little. “Take heart! What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Although I’m not so sure it’s true about Bree sprouts.”

 

Some of them had treasured away their sausage slice, keeping it for the last bite. Others, like Dwalin, had chewed first the questionable, but still welcome meat, hoping the taste would somewhat linger in their mouth for the worst part of the meal. Nobody was avoiding the terrible Bree sprouts, though. It was still food. Perhaps.

“That’s vile,” said Thorin, his mouth full.

A chorus of disgusted mumbles answered him. Now that their prince was acknowledging the truth, everyone felt free to make their opinion known.

“Think that’s a healthy diet for a Dwarf, so much greenery?” went on Thorin, eyeing Nár. “Mother always told us to eat our meat and leave the green things for the elves.”

“I never ate any of those blasted things in Erebor, for sure,” answered the old dwarf. “Still, it fills the belly. That’s better than the alternative.”

“Thank you for your continued support,” smirked Thorin.

“You’re welcome, my liege,” mock bowed Nár. “Besides, we’re dwarves, and –”

“– Mahal made the Dwarves to endure,” finished Thorin and Dwalin in unison.

“I don’t think it will harm us, for sure,” added Dwalin. But maybe there was something, he thought as he looked at his comrades. Soldiers’ sons, most of them, or sons of tanners, weavers, woodworkers, who would never have counted among the mighty in Erebor, born of rough people and meant to have a rough life from the start. Yet, had the Mountain not fallen, none of them would have got that gaunt, almost feral look that now even their prince shared. All of them, Dwalin included, they were all sharp bones and lean faces and sunken eyes and hard muscles and not one ounce of fat over it; a pack of wild wolves when the winter has lasted too long and the hunger becomes all-encompassing.

He sighed. “Give me your plates. I’ll scrub them and then I’m off to the tavern. Maybe a few buckets of ale can wash off that taste.”

_______________________________________

Left to his own devices, Thorin probably wouldn’t have drifted to the tavern that evening. The dwarves would necessarily be outnumbered, and if they tried to sing or play, there’d be a Man bellowing a different song as soon as he’d hear the first notes. There’d be taunts, small change thrown on the ground at their feet in offer for some distasteful chores, or lewd jokes and guesses at their genders. The dwarves would be huddling together in a corner, nursing the single pint each which was, whatever Dwalin decided to say about it, the only amount of ale their finances would allow them.

Thorin wasn’t even sure he’d find comfort in the proximity of others. There was always a distance, if not physically, at least in body stances and phantoms of deferent bows and not-quite-uttered titles. And he didn’t quite know how to cross that gap. He knew how to be polite, he knew how his rank meant he was born to serve his people, knew he had to care for them – though it wasn’t always clear how – but he didn’t quite manage to make friends out of them. That was something he envied Dwalin for, that easy way with which he was able to make the others forget he was the son of one of the mightiest lords of the line of Durin. There might even be one or two of the youngest in their company who genuinely thought Mister Dwalin was just one of them. When Dwalin let his speech, rare as it was, devolve into the thicker rolling brogue of the Erebor commoners, it never felt condescending or affected. It was easy and genuine, and made dwarves from all horizons want to gather around him and mock-punch his (spectacular) biceps and tell a tale of their own.

And Dwalin, who was so free and genuine with others, had never stopped being as free and genuine with Thorin, and that made him his truest friend – maybe his only friend, thought Thorin with a touch of self-pity. He glanced with some regret at his own small wooden harp, propped against the wall beside Dwalin’s viol. That traitor of a friend had gone to the tavern, and so would he have to go himself.

 

What Dwalin had been doing meanwhile at the tavern was ask Megin, son of a famous axe-wielder of Erebor and already a fearsome fighter himself, to finish the tattoo on his right hand. Thorin couldn’t help feeling he was trespassing on some intimate scene, and Megin and Dwalin’s heads bent on the work in progress made him feel – well, forgotten, left aside, maybe jealous. He could see the stark black ink and the raised reddish skin around it from his spot on the threshold: pillars and arches in a stylised design that still conveyed the essence of Moria architecture. His friend had set his other hand flat on the table so the complementary tattoo that had been adorning it for a few months could be used for reference: another set of stylised arches, this time in the Ereborean manner. The two lost homes of the people of Durin, and two tattoos often displayed by the soldiers of their clan, a long ago sign of belonging, now also a promise to go back.

“Another soldier’s tattoo?” asked Thorin while sitting in front of the others. “Plan to give Fundin a heart attack?”

“Wait to see what I do to my hair next time,” grinned Dwalin, wiping the sweat from his face with his free hand. “Anyway my father thinks I’m a lost cause. Plus, he’s a good man, and married a soldier’s daughter himself. But Balin will scold me, you can count on it. Ever so politely. While apologising, and making his disappointment perfectly clear.” He grinned larger. “Anyway I like my hands like that. Aren’t you jealous?”

Thorin only grunted in answer.

“Come on, but you are jealous, your Highness. You’d like a wee tattoo of your own? I’m sure Megin can arrange something. Ha. You’re blushing. I’m sure we’ve discovered one of your darkest desires.”

Mahal’s balls, but he did feel himself blush. And obviously Dwalin was enjoying watching him embarrass himself. “I – I’ve thought of it,” said Thorin. “But it couldn’t be somewhere too visible.”

“Oh? Where, and what?”

“I’d like a raven,” answered Thorin, feeling rather bold. “I miss the ravens of Erebor. Something geometric in the Ereborian style, and maybe not so small. On the side of my chest, maybe, around there.”

He gestured from his left pectoral to his ribcage.

“A raven. Would suit you well,” mumbled Dwalin, and were the tips of his ears colouring? Probably the pain, thought Thorin.

“My lo – Thorin,” said Megin, “if you sketch what you’re thinking of, we can discuss it together and I’ll be happy to assist you.”

Thorin smiled. “I’d like to.”

Dwalin looked strange again, his eyes nearly ferocious for a split-second as he glanced at Megin, and it was too good to let it go.

“Now _you_ are the jealous one,” teased Thorin. “Want a raven of your own?”

“Certainly not,” answerd Dwalin curtly. “Besides, I don’t think there’s that much room left on my chest. Now excuse me while I wave back at this interesting young man behind you.”

Thorin didn’t turn. Dwalin was only deflecting his enquiries, because – or was he being serious? “Did you hit your head on something in that tunnel, Dwalin? Are you seriously considering being friendly to a _Man_? Who waves to you? Here?”

“Ah. Friendly isn’t the word I’d use.”

“But – do you know him?”

“In one meaning of the word, yes. We’ve, erm, bumped against each other once or twice before.”

Dwalin wiggled his eyebrows and added a lopsided grin and Thorin felt himself blush again, not a little anger mixed with his discomfort this time. Of course, Dwalin only smiled more widely.

“I do love to make you blush, Thorin my lad.”

“Fuck off.”

“Exactly.”

Thorin took his head in his hands. “A Man, though. Just why?”

“Because of his backside? Yeah, definitely his backside. ‘s nice. And his cock. Longer than most dwarves’, not very thick, though. Ah, and he’s got clever hands. I’d add more, but you’re turning dark crimson, Thorin.”

“No, really, Dwalin. Seriously.”

“That’s what you’re asking me? Why a Man? Not why a male?” Dwalin’s voice was slightly off – choked, somewhat.

That’s when Thorin realised that it was in fact what he was wondering about. Having a taste for males among the people of Durin – well, it could turn out problematic, especially in the upper spheres of the dwarven society. But a taste for Men? That felt like high treason.

“I – I’m aware you enjoy the company of soldiers,” he said, casting a glance to Megin who was very pointedly studying his own tattooed hands, and right then nodded once and left in the direction of the counter. “And that dwarves such as them who can only worship their women from afar can fall upon – replacements. So if that’s what you need… But one of the race of Men, yes, that’s what I don’t understand,” he added softly. “Why?”

Dwalin’s eyes, clear and grey, found Thorin’s. “I did it with dwarves, a few of them. Males. Soldiers, aye. Most of them look for replacements, as you said. But dwarves tend to fall in love, Thorin. And they love only once.”

“And that’s not what you were looking for, love?”

Dwalin sighed, and Thorin had never seen a more unguarded expression on his friend before. “No. Not from the ones I can bed. So all in all, you see, it’s easier with Men. They’re strangers, they don’t like us, they’re ashamed of their own tastes, they won’t fall in love with a dwarf. Easy to fuck, easy to leave. And now, if you excuse me, I’m gonna get it.”

He rose and Thorin finally turned around to get a look at the object of Dwalin’s attentions. He swore.

“What?” asked Dwalin.

“That’s Hameln’s son. You know. The rabbit owner.”

“Well, probably the father doesn’t know everything about his son, then. And as I said, you don’t have to like them to fuck them.”

“That’s dangerous, Dwalin.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a nice arse.”

“Dwalin.”

But Dwalin was already leaving the tavern, Hameln’s son standing up only moments after.

Thorin swore again, thought for a while, then rose and went after them.

 

‘The ones I’m bedding,’ Dwalin had said. Yet that didn’t look like a bed in the slightest. The Man had led Dwalin into a maze of narrow alleys, Thorin tagging along as discretely as he could. Now his friend and that Man were groping, the Man with his back on a wall and Dwalin standing in front of him. Thorin didn’t like it at all – because they stood in a blind alley, no escape in case of crisis, and the area was full of dark arches and recesses where any kind of thugs could hide.

Someone moaned. Dwalin. Thorin felt sure of it. They were grinding against each other and Thorin thought the height difference made it look ridiculous, the Man having to bend his legs and Dwalin standing on tiptoe. Still, they seemed to enjoy themselves, and soon Dwalin fell to his knees, lowering the man’s trousers down to mid-thighs in the same movement.

Thorin couldn’t have spent twenty years on the road without having gathered some decent knowledge about how the deed was done. There were lewd songs, after all, some he’d sung himself, and the taunts thrown his way by men, and road inns that didn’t try that hard to hide the more explicit kind of services they offered.

So yes, he had an idea of what exactly Dwalin was doing down there, though the thought of a male doing it to another male felt – strange. He wondered what the other thought of Dwalin’s wiry beard rasping his nether regions, and winced at the strength with which the Man’s hands twisted into his friend’s hair, coaxing the dwarf for more, more, deeper, and Thorin could hear groans and filthy encouragements from his hiding place.

They stopped briefly to remove some of Dwalin’s upper layers, the dwarf’s mouth letting go with a wet, dirty sound that made Thorin blush again. The man was still clothed, only his thighs and groin bare, and Thorin didn’t care for his form at all, the wiry legs nearly hairless, looking peachy white even in the dim light, , the narrow shoulders comically covered with surcoat and cloak, and Dwalin back to his task such a contrast close to him. Dwalin – Dwalin was offering himself, his bulky shoulders only covered with a threadbare shirt, the man’s hands now working their way under the collar and probably ripping it open, and Thorin – Thorin had always admired his friend’s spectacular build, envied his incredible strength and the width of his torso, but right now he hated that Dwalin could give himself so to another, kneeling in the mud, all protections discarded on the ground with his upper layers, all thoughts of guarding himself gone to the wind, all his power curbed to serve a Man so.

The rhythm broke. There was fumbling and groaning, hands travelling and clothes in the way; the clink of something made of glass, Dwalin’s hand caught somewhere between the wall and the Man’s arse, his other hand on his own cock. Then with a snarl Dwalin stood abruptly and caught the other by his middle, twised and pulled until the man was the one kneeling, his hands braced on the wall and his back to Dwalin, swearing and shouting and pleading in what was undeniably arousal. And now Dwalin was sheathing himself in the other in one deep thrust, and Thorin still couldn’t see what his friend found in that Man’s backside, and the idea that a male – even a Man – could bend, relent all control like that, allow another inside him, was bewildering. Unthinkable. But at the same time nothing between male and female he ever had stumbled upon on the road, nothing he could have created in his private fantasies could ever look like that. A male fucking a male, no softness, nothing tender or loving, strong arms that gripped hard, and hips meeting arse in a violent dance. And Dwalin now, Dwalin looked glorious, his power put to good use at least, and Thorin didn’t know if he was imagining himself in his friend’s stead, or remembering bouts of sparring with Dwalin and a dance of weapons that might have been nearly the same.

He was hard, painfully so, and resisted the urge to deal with it with his hand, so wrong it was.

The man shouted and slumped under Dwalin’s weight, and soon after Dwalin roared and leaned heavily on arms set in the mud. There was a lull, the sound of hard breathing, and Thorin felt like a fool, watching this with his cock still straining his breeches.

And then he spied movement in the corner of his eye, saw several shapes converging where his friend was. Men.

Dwalin’s Man had seen them too and rose in a swift sinuous movement to his feet, gathering his trousers back up. Dwalin only turned his head around from his sitting position and swore.

“Good show, Halm,” said one of the newcomers. “You looked like you really enjoyed yourself.”

The Man – Halm, then – smiled a lascivious, debauched, _wrong_ smile.

“You can say that. He performed well, that one. Didn’t I tell you he was good? I’m guessing you’ll want to sample him some, now.”

The men were closing on the pair and Dwalin was still sitting down, reaching blindly behind him towards his discarded clothes. He had to have a knife hidden somewhere, hoped Thorin fervently. Or some metal parts of his clothing could be made into weapons, his belt and buckle for one thing, and maybe he’d have time to put on at least the heavy leather surcoat as some kind of armour. Thorin had nothing, not even a kitchen knife, and hated himself for tagging along earlier without even thinking.

Dwalin had his hand on his belt, now, and lashed with it at the first man to come near, the heavy buckle impacting with a dull, loud crash. But Halm was behind him, and –

“Dwalin!” bellowed Thorin. “Behind you! He’s got a knife!”

Dwalin didn’t lose time wondering why Thorin would be there, pivoted and jumped up and crashed his fist into the pit of the man’s stomach, slammed the knife-holding hand on the wall. But the five others were upon him now, and Thorin ran over them with nothing but his fists and his rage.

There was a man on the ground, sitting forlornly and talking to himself in a singsong voice. He’d been pulled down by his coat and introduced to Dwalin’s forehead, Thorin knew, and he grinned, feeling the madness of battle upon him. Another knife burst into splinters under his boot – low-quality iron, that – and Dwalin was standing back to back with him and finally all was as it should be. Blows kept landing down but they gave as hard as they got and the men just didn’t realise that someone smaller than them would only stand steadier on the ground, and be perfectly positioned to land a heavy boot into an unprotected shin. The men began to smell of fear, and Dwalin smelt of sweat, and still, faintly, of sex.

There were, nonetheless, still five opponents for only two of them.

A bell clanged, not so far, together with the hurried rumble of many boots. A lantern swayed wildly to the rhythm of someone running.

“The guards!” shouted one of the men. “To the Void with them!”

Dwalin swirled on his heels, turning to face Thorin. “Now you run,” he said “I’m safe.”

Thorin blocked someone’s fist which was aiming to take advantage of Dwalin’s inattention. “What?”

“Mahal be damned, you’ll not get back to jail for that. Run!”

“No.”

Dwalin caught Thorin by the shoulders and pushed him away as hard as he could.

“Thorin! _Me id-dashatu uzbâd_! This is on my honour!” he roared.

Thorin kneecapped one of the men standing in his way, then ran, elbowing away the two guards converging toward him.

Behind him, he heard metallic clanging noises and very definite Khuzdul swearing.

_______________________________

Dwalin woke up on mouldy straw. For an instant, he wondered if he had managed to find something stronger than ale at the tavern the previous evening and what kind a riot his drunken self had caused to end in a cell. Ow. A lot of something stronger, judging by the pounding in his head. Then he felt the bump on the back of his head and remembered the guards. What did they hit people with to manage that effect on a dwarvien skull?

Then he remembered the rest of his evening and felt more impotent rage and shame than he’d experienced in the whole of the rest of his life. Forgetting all notions of safety. Being played for a fool. Narrowly avoiding collective rape. Dismissing Thorin’s warning.

Thorin. Mahal. Thorin of all people had witnessed everything. Had probably saved Dwalin’s sorry arse. Had he escaped the guards at least?

The sound of boots on flagstones echoed unpleasantly inside his skull. It was accompanied by a smell that he knew only too well and it was doing nothing to help his budding nausea.

“Breakfast, dwarf!” bellowed a voice.

Dwalin repaid the incoming guard with his best withering glance. That the man recoiled just a little helped some.

“Are we having a bit of a headache this morning?” asked the guard.

Dwalin grunted. “What did you hit me with?”

“Ah,” said the man, entirely too cheerfully. “You’d like to know, heh?”

Dwalin showed his teeth and growled.

“No need to go all feral on me, master dwarf. We’re used to your sort, you know. With the coal mines here, there are a lot of dwarves passing through. So I happen to know that you small buggers can even be pleasant under all that leather, tattoos and spiky things. At least once the drink has been pissed off.” The guard was, again, smiling entirely too genuinely, nodded to something at his belt. “And that’s why we equipped ourselves with reinforced truncheons, you see. We’ve learnt our lesson about dwarves’ skulls. And now, I really think you should try for some breakfast. It might settle the nausea.”

“Settle the nausea? With that smell? And what it is exactly?” said Dwalin, holding the bowl gingerly.

“Oh, Bree sprouts. We’ve been really blessed with the crop this winter. Everyone gets to eat some. Even the pigs don’t want much of it anymore, so often they got to taste it.”

“Even the pigs, eh. And the prisoners?”

“Eat. I boiled it together with bacon, some of the taste might remain.”

Dwalin looked closer at the contents of the bowl. Bree sprouts, slightly charred. Without even one sausage slice. Not even the ghost of a potato. Thorin was right, prison fare was even worse than his own cooking. But the man was right in that his stomach needed something to fill it up, so he took the spoon and began munching the spongy, burnt mess.

“Where are the others?” he asked after a while.

“Others? What others?”

“I wasn’t brawling all by myself. Those who attacked me, of course.”

“Attacked you. That’s not the story we heard. There aren’t no others in the cells, if you want to know.”

Dwalin slumped back, head in his hands. None other arrested. That was worse than he thought.

“I’m sorry,” said the other, not unkindly. “That was Lord Hameln’s son you hit, you know. He’s not happy about it.”

Dwalin winced.

“I’ve got some coffee boiling in the other room. Do you want some?”

Boiling. Maybe it was some kind of backhanded torture? But the guard was being nice. He nodded.

“I’ll go fetch it. And see if the other dwarf who wanted to see you is back.”

Mahal please let it be Nár and not Thorin, thought Dwalin.

 

It was Thorin. And if Dwalin judged by the white around his nostrils and the thin line of his mouth, he was livid.

“What did you think you were doing?” asked Thorin. “You elf-brained fool of a man-fucker.”

He spoke in a low tone, enunciating each syllable carefully. No shouting. He was really, really angry, then. Dwalin knew he deserved the scolding, but Thorin’s swearing game was as weak as ever, and that was an opening. Deflect, attack: that’s what a cornered Dwalin would always fall upon.

“That’s all the swearing you can find? You really need me to teach you, lad.”

But Thorin didn’t take the bait. Really, truly, deeply incensed, then.

“Really? And what else would you teach me.” He still didn’t raise his voice. “And how could I trust you.”

“Fuck, Thorin. I’m sorry.”

“You can. You’re hurt?”

Surprised, Dwalin felt the bump on his skull, then realised Thorin’s gaze was lower, and realised there was a sizeable bloodstain on his trouser leg.

“Looks like I am. Some knife cut, I guess. Didn’t realise until you mentioned it. Truly, I’m more worried for my trousers than for my skin.”

“Ha. Looks quite large, though. We’ll probably have to sew it shut.”

“You’d better pay our surgeon to do it,” said the guard who had been hovering close. “That one’s not about to get out of here soon. If ever.”

“What?” shouted Thorin. Dwalin, who had begun to guess as much, lowered his head and said nothing. “For some drunken brawl? You couldn’t keep him in here more than a couple of days for that! And where are his opponents? This dwarf has been knifed!”

“Ah, but them men were defending themselves, you see. That one here is facing charges of attempted rape.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and no further sound from Thorin. But the dwarf’s face was absolutely murderous and the guard stepped back until his back was on the wall.

“That wasn’t at all what –” said finally Thorin in a strangled voice.

“You were there? We thought we saw a second one flee,” said the guard.

“No,” said Dwalin. “He wasn’t there. Thorin, shut up. I told you, this is on my honour. And on my head, if needs be, since I was dumb enough to start this.”

“You told him?” asked the guard suspiciously.

Thorin sighed. “You will keep in mind that he told me nothing.” He lifted his hands to his hair, took out his silver clasp. “I seem to recall you were rather interested in my silver once. We’re leaving this morning. How about letting him go with us?”

The man laughed. “A few silver trinkets might do for poaching, but for a rape accusation by Lord Hameln’s son, you’re very far from the count, master dwarf.”

Thorin nodded, sighed again. “I’ve got more.” He undid his collar, reached inside and came back with his torc. It was beautiful, Dwalin saw now. Thick, solid silver twisted on itself, heavy in Thorin’s palm, ending in twin swellings that would have rested just so over the bumps of his collarbone. The inlayed pattern was probably runes, but crafted with such skill that it was difficult to say where the knotwork ended and the writing began.

“Thorin,” said Dwalin, “you can’t.”

“I can.”

The man swore under his breath, nodded once.

“Come on,” said Thorin. “I swear my friend wasn’t about to rape anybody. You do know Hameln’s son.”

“Yes,” said the guard. “Can’t say that I like him much.”

“But you like silver.”

“I have a numerous family.” He took out his keys and opened the cell door. Dwalin made to go out.

The guard stopped him with a hand on his chest. “The clasp and the beads, too, master dwarf.”

Thorin stood erect, his shoulders back and his neck straight. He didn’t raise his head, only his eyes, as he said to the guard. “Come on, guard. This is your chance, seize it. I’m sure there are others that I can buy with the price of that torc. Judges, maybe. So I’ll keep my trinkets. Take the torc. The metal is pure and the inlays are true-silver. _Mithril_. My hair beads wouldn’t add to much in comparison.”

“Mithril?” breathed the guard as he took the torc from Thorin’s hands. “Who is he? Who are you?”

Thorin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Nobody. I’m a coalminer, as you know, and one minus a silver torc presently. Come, Dwalin.”

This time, the guard let him go.

“Do leave soon, dwarves,” called the guard as they were passing the threshold. “Hameln and Halm won’t go after you once you’re out of town, I’m quite sure of it, but don’t linger.”

 

They walked silently under an early morning rain that chilled Dwalin, still only in his shirt, to the bones. “Here,” said Thorin, handing him his coat “I picked it in that alley.”

The backstreets were thankfully empty.

“Did you get our pay?” said Dwalin because that was the easiest thing to ask.

“Yes. We can leave as soon as we’ve collected your things at our lodgings. I’ve already packed your viol and your weapons.”

Dwalin took a few deep breaths. “And did you – talk of this to anyone?”

“No. And I won’t. I think that even Fundin would have objections if I did.”

“He’d be mad. There’s your torc, though.”

“If someone notices, I’ll just say we were caught in a brawl and I had to buy us out of jail.”

“That won’t be very convincing.”

“Too bad.”

“I’ll pay for your torc, Thorin.”

Thorin turned on his heels, facing Dwalin, suddenly furious. “You won’t,” he growled. “I don’t care for your coin. Just don’t do this again. Ever.”

“Do what?” growled back Dwalin, reacting to Thorin’s anger. “Fuck a Man? Fuck a male? I have my needs, lad.”

“You’re too cocky by half, _lad_ ” countered Thorin, simmering. “Fuck an elf if you wish, but don’t forget everything about your own security ever again, Dwalin! I told you who he was! You knew you couldn’t trust him! Durin’s hammer, I can’t believe that you – you, of all dwarves, always going around with a whole hidden arsenal, did that! You endangered more than just yourself, do you realise? Do you have any idea of what a Dwarf condemned for raping a Man would have meant for us in the whole of Dunland?”

“Mahal be damned, I know. _I know_! I though he was – that he was sweet, that man. Sort of devious, but – lost in the wrongness of his desires. Yes, lost. Innocent.”

“Ha.”

“I know. And believe me, I know how close to a disaster I was. Thank you for being there. Twice.”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously, Thorin. You were there for me, and –” He stopped abruptly, set his gaze into Thorin’s eyes, suddenly very large and very blue. “How long had you been there, in that alley?”

“I –” began Thorin, and then he had to clear his throat. “From the beginning. I followed you. I was worried!”

“From the beginning. You watched us, hmm? You were worried, you say? Was it only worry that made you look?”

Thorin uttered a small, almost inaudible whimper.

“And what did you think? Did you think it dirty? Unnatural? Hot? Were you interested?”

“Yes,” breathed Thorin hoarsely. “I was interested.”

Dwalin stepped closer to his friend, not touching, their bodies only inches from each other. “And would you like to try?”

“Yes,” whispered Thorin, so close his breath felt hot and wet on Dwalin’s lips.

Dwalin only set the tip of his fingers on Thorin’s collarbone, where the torc should have rested, and closed the gap. Their lips met.

“There you are!” shouted Nár’s voice a little too loudly. “I was wondering where you’d gone. Where did you spend the night, Dwalin?”

Dwalin stepped back in a hurry.

“He lost his way coming back from the tavern,” said Thorin, his ears a deep crimson.

“Aye. Too much ale.”

“Well, I’d like a few words with you, Dwalin my lad.” Dwalin sighed. “Will you help me pack, then?”

“All right,” said Thorin. “I’ll leave you here. I’m going to see to the ponies. Oh, and Nár?” he added as the others were already a few paces away. “We were caught in a brawl last night, Dwalin and I. He was knifed in the thigh. He’ll need stitching.”

________________________________

“Mahal’s balls, Nár, why did you do that for?”

“And you?”

“And I what?”

“You were about to kiss Thorin, weren’t you?”

“I kissed him. And would have loved to go on for much longer than that, thank you. Why is everybody prying into my sex life these days?”

“Thorin is royalty, Dwalin.”

“You won’t believe me, but I think I’ve already been told. And?”

“Oh, stop it, boy. And, he’s destined to marry, and beget heirs. And he’s supposed to be a model of dwarven morality, worshipping the women of his race and competing for their favours, and certainly not giving in to his basest instincts.”

“Basest instincts.”

“I’m telling it as you’ll hear it. Before being thrown away to the dogs, if it ever gets known. Dwalin. If any of the lords, your father and brother included, think you’re turning Thorin away from the love of women, they’ll have your head!”

“Come on. He’s young, he can have a little fun on the side. Where’s the wrong in it?”

“Yes, he can. And then in three days we’ll be back at Thráin’s settlement and he’ll get caught back in the politics of the line of Durin. He’ll be made to get lost in some craft, and be told about his duties, and will set his fun on the side. And you with it. That’s what you want? You love him, don’t you?”

“Takes one to know one, heh, Nár? Did you manage to keep a little piece of Thrór for yourself during all this time? Or did you leave because you couldn’t stand it?”

Nár looked defeated. “Thrór loved his wife. Always. But he still thinks I belong to him. Because so long ago, I –” His voice broke. Dwalin felt moved to squeeze his arm.

“And do _you_ still think you belong to him?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. I love him.” Nár cleared his throat. “It’s not an easy life. Not one I would wish for you, Dwalin.”

“I’d still let Thorin take what he wants,” said Dwalin, because there was that part of him that wanted to be free to serve.

“Thorin,” said Nár softly. “Thorin isn’t Thrór, however often they say he looks so much like him. I think he’s more open to others. More fragile, with a bigger need to please. Maybe less interested in women, too. It’s obvious he wants you.”

“You think so?” asked Dwalin, surprised to feel the jump of his heart.

“Dwalin, you fool. Yes. And that means you could really hurt him, if he feels he has to leave you. Be careful, my boy. Maybe it’s best if you let him go.”

Dwalin felt himself soar. What Nár was telling him was that he had to renounce Thorin but all he could think of was that Thorin wanted him. Maybe loved him. And he knew Nár’s opinion could be trusted and he never had felt so much hope.

Nár sighed. “And now you’re hearing only what you want to hear, aren’t you? Come, let’s see to your leg.”

__________________

The line of pony-riding dwarves stretched on the low hill ridge, riding North with the Misty Mountains on their right to Thráin’s settlement. Strange, thought Dwalin, that everyone always referred to it as Thráin’s never as Thrór’s, although the latter was their king. But Thrór always kept to chambers he had made his people dig deep inside the stone, and chose not to mingle much, mourning instead his realm and his riches and clinging desperately to every piece of jewellery he’d managed to salvage.

Dwalin glanced at his newly tattooed hands. They were riding to the North of Dunland, he thought. To a settlement that was dug smug against the roots of the Misty Mountains. Closer to the Redhorn Pass. Closer to Khazad-Dûm. He shivered slightly, not really knowing why.

Behind them, the mining town was disappearing in the mist. Thorin kept looking at it over his shoulder.

“You’ll think I’m mad,” he said finally, “but I can’t help missing that town now that we’re out of it. Maybe it’s the mine. I never saw worse tunnels, but they went through good stone. I could feel it, when we were working, the way it connected to the strongest roots of the mountains.”

Dwalin nodded. He’d sensed some of that, too.

But Thorin wasn’t done yet. “I think I could follow the roots,” he said, his expression a little vague, a little troubled. “Sometimes I sensed that I approached something strong, like a heart, a large one, but entwined with something fiery and dark. Maybe the heart of the mountain? It troubled me, but it grounded me too, when I was there. Gave me strength." He turned his eyes to Dwalin and they were darker than they should, the pupils just a little too wide for the amount of light. “I think I sensed mithril,” he breathed.

“Were you now, boy?” asked Nár. “Well, maybe we should talk about it to your father, you and I.”

Dwalin frowned. He’d never got such a clear impression of what extended beneath. And never really cared for it. But he wasn’t sure he liked the expression of – of lust, or was it too strong a word? That fought to take its hold on Thorin’s features. He remembered how he had likened Thorin to a Maia, that last day in the mine. He thought of what Nár had told him, that the lords would wish to smother any of Thorin’s deviant streaks under some sort of craft. Thorin was an excellent smith, but he was sure his friend would never lose himself in that – but was Dwalin about to lose Thorin to the call of some stone far away?

“I’ll also miss the company,” Thorin was going on. “I enjoyed these months with the whole of you. It felt nice. Easy.” He looked again into Dwalin’s eyes, and Dwalin nearly exclaimed aloud because his friend was back, his eyes focused again and blue, so blue he’d damn himself for them. “It felt precious,” said Thorin finally, and was he talking about what he and Dwalin nearly had?

“So it did,” said Dwalin, and he felt a great pang of love mingled with loss.

_________________________

Nár was riding in front, lost in his thoughts. Thorin urged his pony forward, wishing to talk with him about that thing with mithril, and how and why they should bring it to Thráin.

But when he looked at the old dwarf his words died in his throat. Nár’s face was crumpled with an expression of great sadness and probably, thought Thorin, something that looked like fear.

The iron-shod hoof of his pony hit some stone with a clang and Nár startled.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, and a blank mask fell over his features. Then his eyes softened, dark and kind. “Thorin,” he went on. “When we reach Thráin’s settlement, go visit Thrór. Talk to him, not as a prince talks to his king, but as a grandson to his grandfather. Tell him you love him.”

“Ah,” said Thorin. “It’s true, I do love him. Though sometimes I wish there wasn’t so much grief in that love. But will he hear me? Won’t he be too bitter and lost?” ‘And caught by his lust for ore and jewels,’ he added privately.

“I don’t know. He still cares, sometimes. Don’t count on it. But do it for yourself, lad. You’ll be glad of it. Later.”

“Later? What aren’t you telling me?”

Nár smiled sadly. “Nothing you won’t learn soon enough, Thorin. And it’s not mine to tell.”

They rode in silence for a while.

“Thorin?” said Nár finally.

“Nár?”

“I love you, my boy.”

“I love you too, Nár. You were the one to hold my hand at the forge when Thráin was being too harsh. But will you tell me what’s going on?” he added in a voice that came out as whiny.

But Nár didn’t answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is for this first installment. I'm aware that I've got another unfinished fic, I promise it's not abandoned! I just felt like I needed to balance my Dr Jekyll's het-loving side with my Mr Hyde slash-loving one (or is it the opposite?)
> 
> Also, I'm still not a native speaker, so if you find anything strange or stilted or anything don't hesitate to tell me! 
> 
> Khuzdul translations - feel free to correct my Khuzdul I'm not a native speaker either ;) :  
> Kekhfaru Mahâl! -> Mahal's great backside! (I hope, because combining the construct state with the emphatic noun form feels somewhat risky...)  
> Me id-dashatu uzbâd! -> You are the son of kings!


End file.
